


Scion

by Ozma, Zahira



Series: Ascians and Babies [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon, Ascian, Awkward Daddy Lahabrea, Babies, F/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zahira/pseuds/Zahira
Summary: 2.5 AU - Alternate timeline; if 2.1-2.5 took around 3 years.The Warrior of Light faces the challenges of raising a child seen as an abomination by the Gods. Pre-existing relationship.





	1. Matea

**Author's Note:**

> In the game files for 3.0 there exists an unused model for Lahabrea with golden hair and golden eyes. We've used this for the child's appearance so that the Warrior of Light's remains neutral.

Golden hair gleams in the sunset, the fading sunlight of Revenant’s Toll reflecting red from equally golden eyes.

“Matea.” Ferociously mischievous giggles are the toddler’s only response, said child an unstoppable force with unwavering focus on her goal - no matter what it might be. Whatever Matea chases, around and around Mor Dhona’s aetheryte, barely avoiding the bustle of adventurers as she carelessly darts under their arms and crawls over stone benches, offering only an occasional rushed apology whenever she miscalculates her path, is elusive to your eyes.

It came as no surprise when Lahabrea named your daughter for the storied emperor of a lost land that overcame death, ruling the Heavens and Hells themselves. Leaving her in your care more often than not, Lahabrea suffers few of the determined whims of a willful child; he knows not how well the name becomes of her.

Would that she not so thoroughly take after her parents.

In her preoccupation, Matea nearly bowls over the ever-present Slafborn, who merely chuckles in response.

“Matea. Return at once.”  Your use of the ancient tongue stills any thoughts of defiance; Matea sulks over to your side, knowing better than to disobey when you are serious enough to address her in the tongue usually reserved for the privacy of her bedchamber or during Lahabrea’s infrequent visits.

“Ma, Shiun said he’ll teach me how to be a sh’nobi if I can beat his record.” Children are an uncommon sight in Mor Dhona, and the young Doman refugees are Matea’s only consistent playmates close in age, but they are older -- more mentally developed and more serious, already working with their parents between bouts of playing at being adventurers. Still, they took to Matea quickly enough, acting as older siblings and role models.

“His first lesson will be to show more awareness of your surroundings. You ran into Mister Slafborn and should apologize.”

The girl raises a hand behind her head, looking sheepishly to the side in a gesture all too reminiscent of the Roegadyn’s own. “S’rry, Mister Slafborn.”

“Aye, it’s alright lass.” He turns his smile toward you. “Children will be children. The girl’s not in any danger, and adventurers and clients alike adore the daughter of the famed Warrior of Light. As Rowena would say, ‘she’s good for business.’” Matea beams at his praise of you both, knowing your reputation even without understanding the magnitude of your deeds.

Slafborn, meanwhile, offers naught but a shrug at your puzzlement. It seems unlike him to be so forgiving of foolishness, having taken great pains to correct fledgling adventurers in over their heads on more than one occasion.

“Come sweetheart, let’s go get you cleaned up.” Ignoring further complaints and offering Slafborn a warm smile, you take Matea’s tiny hand in yours and lead her back to the small, newly furnished building you’ve come to call home as the last remnants of day flee the sky.

“Hungry! Can we go see Yda and Pa’lymo?”

“I have a better idea.” You tease lightly with a soft smile, piquing her interest and leaving her breathless in a flurry of nonstop questions. The gift you’ve for her tonight is far more precious than affectionate meals with the Scions.

Fond as the Scions are of the girl, supping with them has always been an exercise in patience. Aye, children will be children - speaking with all the bluntness of a smith’s hammer about topics best left to rest. Why is Mister Papalymo so short? Why does Mister Thancred fall asleep on the table? Why does Miss Yda like to be called Yda? Yda had shot you a particularly questioning frown over that one.

Matea is not alone in her crude behavior; before all else, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn are scholars consumed with the need to _know_. The questions began as soon as the bulge at your abdomen became clear, but they were always waved away. While few truly believed their Warrior of Light capable of such drunken debauchery, none were close enough to challenge your excuses directly.

Your friends’ collective curiosity reached its peak when Matea greeted the world with eyes of liquid gold. Surely you must know _someone_ , those closest to you insisted, there couldn't be many men you’d lay with that bear such a unique feature. It took little time to learn that the best defense against such queries was to shamefully avoid their gazes until they invariably turned the topic to how striking a feature it was and how well-loved Matea would be.

’Tis fortunate that in the Scions’ minds, Lahabrea wears Thancred’s face, having never learned of his chosen appearance hidden behind his mask.

You are content with them believing the past is buried.

Obedience wrought by curiosity at your “better idea,” Matea giggles and plays in the water as you bathe her, and she sings to herself as you tenderly dry and brush her hair, lingering in simple, idyllic joy long after all her tangles are gone.

Near-silently, darkness bleeds into the room behind you; were you not so thoroughly intertwined, you may not have noticed, but Lahabrea's presence tugs at something deep within you. As if he expects Hydaelyn Herself to bow to his whims, Lahabrea’s magnetic aether beckons the depths of your soul, drawing you into him with such dizzying resonance that you almost lose your grip on Matea’s brush; ‘tis as much an announcement of his arrival as any words.

Matea remains blissfully unaware of the new arrival; despite the nature of her parents, her aether sense remains immature, and only time can aid its growth. She instead remains distracted by the night’s sounds from the open window, and as you recover from Lahabrea’s commanding greeting, you take the opportunity to steal a few more moments with your daughter, plaiting soft golden locks in the way she loves most.

Lahabrea watches intently, unaccustomed to such softness from you; his fire has ever served to stoke passions, not soothe them. He steps closer, near enough that the gentle breeze douses you in his rich, spiced scent, and trails a fingertip over your cheekbone in a silent reminder that he is here and not to be ignored. Your only response is a whisper to Matea to hold still while you finish; her happy, off-key humming of one of the minstrel's tunes is evidence that her peace is yet to be disturbed.

“All done.” You announce soon after Matea begins fidgeting and you’ve no more excuse for procrastination. “Look who’s here!” She spins on your lap, face lighting up as soon as she recognizes the familiar black robes that cover her father from head to toe.

“Daddy!”  She shrieks, leaping from your lap and tugging Lahabrea’s hand, only barely within reach, into hers. Cold ornamental claws, almost the length of the distance between her palm and fingertips, do nothing to deter the twine of her fingers between his.

Though disinterested in returning her grasp, Lahabrea does not push Matea’s nuzzles away; ‘tis as close to affection towards a daughter thus far raised as if she belongs solely to the light that he willingly displays.

Your attempt to meet Lahabrea’s eyes fails, blocked by his ceremonial mask. “You’re early.”

He always is.

“What’re we doin’?” Being dressed and washed, accompanied by her father’s rare arrival, Matea immediately notices something amiss.

 _What_ indeed. Busy as he is with his duties, Lahabrea takes little interest in his daughter’s daily development, making exceptions only to inquire about her health and to ascertain that she is given freedom to explore her Gift. Something is changed, and you would know what; Lahabrea’s neutrality provides no hints to his motives.

He has no interest in elaborating, but his free hand again roams your face and slides down your neck in the silent adoration you know so well. “Come.”

Matea squeals in excitement at her father’s subtle affection; with lover and daughter at your side, you travel the silent night streets of Revenant’s Toll, following Lahabrea as he exits to the east. Though Mor Dhona’s monsters are no true threat to those as powerful as you or Lahabrea, there’s still reason to fuss; Matea cannot protect herself. Yet. Recognizing her vulnerability, Lahabrea allows the girl to continue holding his hand, and you settle for falling back a pace to ensure you can keep watchful eye on her in case Matea mischievously flits away after something fascinating that catches her eye.

He leads the three of you to the crystalline shores of Silvertear Lake, gaze settling on the frozen form of its guardian, still coiled around the _Agrias_. Matea is too young to understand the history of the landmark, but she recognizes its power all the same, always looking over Silvertear with clear-eyed awe that comes only from childish innocence.

You can not share her anticipation; Midgardsormr’s looming silence - and Hydaelyn’s - all but swallows you, memories of their distant, foreign voices now lost. All you can do is focus on Matea rather than the dreadful emptiness; you chose her above all else without hesitation.

You will serve Eorzea and Hydaelyn regardless of the dragon’s judgement.

Matea revels in the rare adventure, pulling off her shoes to splash and dance in ankle-deep waters. The full moon’s light filters through Mor Dhona’s thick ambient aether and colors the three of you violet; any normal family would have taken pains to avoid leaving home in such hostile conditions.

“If you go in the water, you’ll need another bath before bed,” you scold, knowing that her desire to avoid a second bath will keep her from trouble. Matea sulks, but turns her attention on Lahabrea, so close at your side that you can feel his breaths, in consideration, a tiny frown and scrunched features evidence of her turmoil. You know that look; she has questions - inappropriate ones. _Ah_ , so this is his purpose. . .

It doesn’t take Matea long to summon the bravery to speak her mind. “Daddy, why d’you wear a mask?”

The hints of a smile play at your lips at her naivety; that Lahabrea deigns answer demonstrates his equal amusement.

“I wear it in service of my master.” In private, Lahabrea chooses to speak in the ancient tongue, which Matea, too, claims as her own.  “As you-”

“Master?” Matea interrupts excitedly. “People call mommy ‘Master!’”

“The one true God.”

The familiar phrase focuses your attention and you glare at Lahabrea in silent warning. He smiles at your indignation, arm encircling your waist, looking full ready to continue weaving his tale, but childish, passionate curiosity overwhelms her father’s more calculated response.

“God? Like the Twelve?” You know not which of you disapproves more.  Matea has spent her life in Revenant’s Toll and Eorzea’s Gods were specifically omitted from her curriculum.  You can only sigh, imagining her eavesdropping on Thancred’s muttered, drunken curses while playing "shinobi."

“Nay. Our master is far greater.” Matea lacks understanding, but as reverent as she is of her father, trust makes her willing to latch onto his beliefs and claim them for herself. You and Lahabrea must needs partake in a prolonged discussion later; the agreement was for Matea to make her own choices. The truth would be discussed when she was an adult, not a toddler incapable of understanding life and death. “Look to the sky, beyond the aether. What do you see?”

“Stars!” She wells in pride at being able to finally answer her father to his satisfaction. “The moon!”

Lahabrea nods. “The one true God’s prison. Even now we are blessed by His watchful gaze.”

At the awe-inspiring declaration, he’s rewarded with Matea’s coos of interest. “How’d He get stuck in the sky?”

Lahabrea balances precariously on the edge of innocence, his lessons soon delving into depths unsuitable for a child, no matter how extraordinary her parents. Tensing, you withdraw from Lahabrea’s warm embrace, Mor Dhona’s night chill seeping into your bones; with a sideways glance, his smirk acknowledges your irritation.

“Mayhaps you should ask your mother.” His overt confidence reminds you that Lahabrea is the individual that has long commanded the Source’s fate.

“He tried to take more than was within his rights.”  You explain in the only way you know how. “Like when you ate Tataru’s cake. She got mad, didn’t she?” The words spoken in Eorzean are dissonant with their ancient tongue.

“Is that so?” Blatant doubt oozes from Lahabrea, confusing Matea, who desperately wishes to please the father who is so rarely a part of her life. “‘Twas always his to _eat_.” He all but spits out the childish phrase; you’re uncertain what he expects, Matea is a youngling.

‘Tis fascinating to watch their interaction; you know the strategy Lahabrea employs well enough, little different than that which he once used upon you. Curious tales backed by undeniable truths, so that you question, tangling yourself deeper within his web until ‘tis impossible to free yourself from his influence.

Lahabrea has taught you much, but heeding him does not mean agreeing with his methods or his spite.

You’ve long since accepted that sharing a soul and bearing a child with Zodiark’s servant would lead to existential conflicts; she unifies your goals.

“Mama…” Sensing the tension, Matea grabs both Lahabrea’s and your hands in attempt to diffuse the hostility. The sweet motion even seems to soothe Lahabrea, as far as a wall of solid darksteel can budge, and he once again draws you to his side. “The moon is a God," she plays a bit with the word on her tongue, mimicking her father's tone "so what are stars?”

“All stars are reflections of the Source.” Lahabrea avoids the question, deftly directing the conversation’s flow to a topic more mutually agreeable.  You thank him by gently grasping his hand.

“Source? What’s a ‘ _source?_ ’”

You interject before Lahabrea can confuse Matea further. “Do you remember the spring at the head of the creek? With waters so deep we couldn’t reach its bottom?  The waters are born of one place - its source.”

“And _all_ the stars come from there?”  Awe finally overcomes curiosity.

“From here.” He corrects. Matea’s face scrunches in confusion as she tries her hardest to make sense of Mor Dhona, the source and its relationship with the stars in the sky.

“She’s a child.” You murmur below her hearing. “I did not understand until I saw the floods, you cannot expect -”

“ _You_ had preconceptions that needed correcting. _She_ does not. ‘Tis best Matea learns her role while young, rather than feeding her delusions of mortality.”

“Give her some time.” You all but plead.

“By your will, I have.” He _has_ been patient; Lahabrea’s lessons were always a looming inevitability.

Lahabrea has granted your every desire regarding Matea, but you, too, stand your ground; no matter _what_ she is, Matea is still a child before all else. If she must learn his ways, ‘twill be done equally under your guidance.

You nod, barely feeling his lips on your cheek or the leather of his mask; her family finally whole, Matea’s happy giggles drown out all the world.


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minfilia learns the truth; mistakes are made.

So deep into the night, a lone candle burns in the Rising Stones, the light’s flickering tendrils peeking out from the solar’s entrance. Darkness’s stillness offers welcome reprieve; with the day’s bustle, there are few opportunities to work without interruption.

This night, however, something interrupts familiar, comforting silence; at the edge of Minfilia’s hearing, just above the scratch of her quill over parchment, she recognizes a sniffling, quiet sob.  A glance at the door proves the solar to be as peaceful as ever, the soft whimpering echoing in from the parlor; with the enchantments on the Stones, there can be but one source - _the child?_

With a frown, Minfilia picks up the lonely candle and gently opens the door to her solar, her steps soft in an attempt to keep from frightening her young visitor. She finds her quickly enough; the child rests with her back to F’lhaminn's bar, chin pressed against her chest and hair shrouding her features, shoulders trembling in her sobs as she clutches a ragged, well-loved doll.  The light of Minfilia's candle chases away the deep shadow, earning Matea’s full attentions.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing up? Let’s return to bed.” Her behavior is not unexpected; having been summoned for business in Ul’dah, the Warrior of Light left Matea in F’lhaminn’s care for the evening and, like any other child whose beloved parent leaves her in the care of a sitter, she doubtless misses her mother.

Minfilia knows that pain well enough.

The child shakes her head fiercely, sniffling again; With a sigh, Minfilia sits on the ground beside her, recognizing that she's not like to get more work done. As the candle draws closer to Matea's face, puffy red eyes become apparent, her features drawn almost comically into a childlike line of determination, as if trying so very hard to be strong like her mother. The revelation earns a genuine smile from Minfilia, melting any remaining sourness at the interruption.

“What’s wrong? Are you lonely?”

A pause; Matea shakes her head after a few seconds.

“Bad dream?”

The girl immediately nods.

“Oh, child. Would you like to tell me what it was about?”

Another long pause, Matea’s tiny lips pressing into hesitant a line. Minfilia knows she mustn’t push, should she ever earn the child's trust. When she finally answers, it’s slow, as if weighing her words on Nald-Thal’s scales: “Mommy and Daddy were fighting.”

A mild ache creeps in behind Minfilia's eyes; F'lhaminn had warned her not to strain too long under such low light, the troubled child finally compounding stress’s effects. Minfilia should have retired to bed bells ago, but she'll not turn her back on Matea now.

 _The poor girl,_ ’tis only natural that a child bereft of a parent should make up tales about their absence. “'Twas only a dream, my sweet. Come now. Would you like some milk?” She stands and offers Matea a hand, leading her to a nearby Lalafell-sized chair and using her candle to light the lantern on the table.

Minfilia busies herself with locating a clean glass and a chilled bottle of milk, reminiscing on how F'lhaminn would comfort her as a child; she settles on a fitting sympathetic tale.

Returning to the table with a filled glass, she sets it down in front of Matea and begins to relay the barest details of her history. “When I was nearly thrice your age, I lost my father. There was an accident at a parade. It was hard without him; F'lhaminn did her best, but I missed him dearly.” Matea drinks in silence; golden eyes dry of tears and gleaming behind candlelight, her quieted sniffles encourage Minfilia to continue. “I never knew my mother, so I suppose we are alike in that way.”

The girl looks away, scrunching her face disapprovingly, pondering something deeply. Minfilia waits patiently, giving Matea time to collect her thoughts.

“Why d'people keep secrets?”

 _Secrets…?_ The sudden change in subject takes Minfilia aback.  “Well… sometimes people know things that would hurt someone else's feelings. Or -” not for the first time, Minfilia wonders whether their champion is ashamed of Matea's parentage. “- sometimes they are embarrassed of the truth and ask others not to tell it.”

Matea responds with a firm nod so strongly reminiscent of the Warrior of Light’s that Minfilia cannot but smile. “Oh, your mother loves you very much, sweetheart. One day you'll be as strong as her and dreams will trouble you no more. Twelve forbid you need that strength.”

Matea takes a few thoughtful sips of her milk, quiet for a time, head tilting, again lost in her thoughts.

“Do the Twelve live in the moon too?” When she finally speaks up, the last remnants of her sniffles are finally soothed.

An odd question and an even odder change in subject; of all Minfilia’s comforts, ‘tis queer that Matea latches onto the Twelve. “In the moon? Did your mother tell you of Dalamud?”

“No, the one true God in the sky. Do the other gods live with Him?”

Minfilia's headache claws back at her sharply. She presses her fingers to her temple, and -

_Oh._

The Echo?

_What language was that?_

“What did you just say, Matea?”

The girl fidgets, seemingly sensing Minfilia's mounting distress. “Do… do the Twelve live in the moon with the one true God?”

The last time Minfilia heard that phrase, in those words, in that language - she shudders, unable to finish the thought. “Sweetheart, please, it's very important you tell me the truth. Who taught you about that?”

Matea shrinks down in her chair, as if to hide behind her empty glass, her voice wispy, almost frightened. “Secret.”

Minfilia's heartbeat pounds in her temples; the lantern's light blurs and brightens painfully, expanding to fill her entire vision before fading to black and grey and violet.

_A child looks over a cold lake, the night air so thick with aether that it nigh obscures the pillar of scale and machine at its heart. The child stares up at the sky in awe, grasping her mother's hand in her right and her father's in her left; looking expectantly up at him, the child sees only a satisfied smile, the rest of his body cloaked in black, save the crimson of his mask -  
_

The vision ends even more abruptly than it began, as if she’s removed, a barrier forcefully impeding her resonance. The force of rejection is unlike anything Minfilia has known; far greater than just disorientation, it almost sends Minfilia reeling to the floor when her consciousness slams back into the dark room.

“You’re not s’posed to do that.” That the girl knows of and understands the Echo is odd, but perhaps not so unexpected given her mother’s skills. However, that she would _scold_ Minfilia for its use defies belief.  “You have to ask first.”

“How did you -? That man -” She gasps, all but bursting with questions and unable to put any to words.

Matea gnaws her bottom lip and looks away, as if ashamed. “Mama. . .”

Minfilia gets up as steadily as she can, using the bar as support. What other secrets does the Warrior of Light hold?

She shivers, though the room is far from chill.

 

\--

 

You are the last to arrive; your business was not set to conclude until late afternoon, but the summons had been urgent enough to cut your plans short, Alphinaud volunteering to oversee any necessary tasks until your return. Minfilia looks haggard, drained and slumping, as if she hasn't slept, head resting in her hands as she stares at her desk.

“ _There_ she is.” Thancred smirks with familiar jovial impatience. “Now will you tell us what this is about?”

Minfilia pauses for a long moment, as if to compose herself, before beginning. “My friends, I have called you all here to discuss a matter most grave.” Her voice wavers, deeply disturbed, and an anxious chill strikes through you, as it doubtless does the entire room. “I believe there has been…” she pauses, searching for words. “...an incursion into our ranks, more dire than ever before.”

Anxiety claims you involuntarily; goosepimples course your arms and your breath takes conscious effort to control. Matea always greets your return with warm smiles and happy giggles, but she's nowhere to be found. Her absence from the Stones must surely be coincidence; she is busy with F'lhaminn in the markets. Minfilia _can’t_ know; the logic does little to soothe your irrational fears.

Y’shtola crosses her arms, her brow deeply furrowed. “An incursion? By whom?”

“Is there anything anyone wishes to say ere I proceed?” Each word seems to strain her more than the last, and now she waits, examining the worn grooves in her desk to avoid meeting the eyes of her trusted comrades. In pregnant silence, the Scions search for hints of discomfort in their fellows. “Truly? Nothing?”

Minfilia raises her eyes and looks directly at you. The ice in your veins flash boils as everyone else's gaze follows hers.

That your face does not immediately twist into confusion surely condemns you more than your words can ever compensate for. Your flat stare, your composed posture - all of it takes a great deal to maintain, stoicism damning you.

‘Twas only a matter of time; you find serenity in dissonance, as if the swirling pandaemonium toys at the dress of a broken doll in your stead.

Minfilia sighs, disappointed.”I had hoped to hear your side, at least.”

“What's happened?” Papalymo, ever pragmatic, pushes forward to learn the truth.

Another long pause. “Her child spoke to me of subjects of which she should have no knowledge. Which no servant of Hydaelyn should know. And I had a vision. I saw who _\- what_ \- taught her these things.”

 _Matea. No._ All other concerns might well be dust as brief delusions of Matea’s lonely tears blind you.

If the Gift revealed this truth, there is no purpose in denial.

“What are you saying?” Realization begins to dawn, Thancred rightfully the most troubled of all.

Minfilia waits, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Where is she?” Minfilia’s condemnations are irrelevant against Matea’s continued safety. 

“Tell them. You owe us that much.” Minfilia ignores your question, determined that you should be the one to say the words, and this time she stubbornly refuses to submit and break the tension.

This was bound to happen. The world crumbles about you, control tumbling from your grasp like an avalanche, and yet beyond the chaos lies relief.

No more hiding.

As she wills it; if Minfilia expects shame, she will find none.

“Matea was sired by Lahabrea.”

The world slows, each Scion’s face twisting as they absorb your words, chaos erupting as they all begin to speak at once. You hear nothing, not truly; it washes over you, one question ringing clear in your mind over all else.

“Where is my daughter?” You continue as if they all said nothing. There is an edge to your tone that you had not intended, and the room chills, much as Minfilia’s words impacted you earlier.

“That’s all you’ve to say?”

The world speeds up as the numbness wears, adrenaline filling your veins, ready to act, fool as it is. ‘Tis to no one’s benefit to attack you, yet you’re defensive all the same.

“What is there to say that has any possibility of changing your mind?” You repeat your earlier query; if they’ve taken Matea, then -

One cool, logical voice cuts through the tension. “Simply being born of an Ascian means little. Is her father actively a part of her life?”

Y'shtola's is a difficult question. While you cannot deny his involvement, neither has he visited her regularly. “On occasion.” You know better than to hesitate, lest they find you guilty of more than you are, but you add, perhaps in foolish hope that they might come to accept there is more to him than they know: “He has been a fair father. All of you can attest to the strength of her character.”

“You were _touching._ ” Minfilia interrupts, disgust well hidden behind her tone.  The Gods don't favor you this day; if _that_ is what Minfilia has seen, she's unlikely to believe the true distance between father and daughter.

The implications having become clear, Thancred’s seething rage boils over. “After all he has done, you allowed _him_ to _defile_ you?”

“How else would Matea have come about? At least _mine_ was not a defilement born of vulnerability.” Thancred reddens, through embarrassment or rage or perhaps both, while the other Scions look ill at your unashamed reaction to having been intimate with your lover. Yda’s hand shoots up to her mouth, Y'shtola squints furiously, and Papalymo crosses his arms in disgust.

“Why?” Yda’s voice strains over the single word.

“We cannot choose who we love.” In the past there might have been wisps of regret in the admission, but no longer.

“I’d not thought you the type to willingly entangle yourself in danger.” Papalymo’s condemnations ring more of logic than Yda’s impassioned pleas, as if searching between your words for explanation as to why you’d choose an Ascian for a lover when you could have any Spoken partner you desired.

He’ll find none.

You are not without empathy; the same denial once filled you both.

Fate.

Inescapable destiny.

Lahabrea, in all his romanticism, might well have used the inextricable binds connecting the Source’s servants to justify his growing affections, but you were not so bound unto tradition.

He shares with you that which no other can, a union of understanding between servants of the Gods, ‘tis true, but to be seen without fear, as more than a tool of convenience, hope, or whatever titled praise they bear for you on a given day -

To be more than the light that banishes darkness and to instead accept it, for to banish darkness is to welcome destruction.

In the eyes of your companions, putting such things to words surely only betrays your madness, and so you choose not to try.

“We only wish to live in peace.”

“In peace with the monster that sought to cause Calamity and -”

“Is she Spoken?” Moenbryda interrupts Thancred, breaking thoughtful silence to voice her curiosities. “ - or something else?  Have any of you looked upon her aetheric flow?” She leaves further implications unspoken, awkwardness filling the room; surely it has passed through the others' minds as well.

That she might think to use Matea to learn more about Lahabrea and his kind -

How _dare_ they? She is a _child_.

 _Never._ It takes all your self control to not draw your weapon; the blatant disapproval on Yda’s and Minfilia’s faces directed towards Moenbryda is all that stays your hand.

“You would take Matea from me?” You had hoped beyond hope that this was not the case - that _surely_ they could see reason.

Perhaps they had hoped the same of you.

“I’ve no intention of keeping you from your daughter.” Minfilia’s exhaustion is evident, but she meets you with equal rigidity. “So long as you swear that neither you nor she have further contact with Lahabrea, I’ll have her returned to you immediately. Bygones shall be byg-”

“You ask the impossible.” you murmur; you cannot well sunder a soul in two, and though you’ve skills granted by Hydaelyn, as Matea grows into her abilities, it’s not yet within your power to properly teach her.

You’ll not let her grow up fatherless.

Desperate words spill from you; they _must_ understand the way of things, truths learned from him but kept hidden for fear of questions regarding the source of your knowledge. “Hydaelyn cannot persist in Her current state! We must needs find a way to mend the imbalance without destruction and I cannot do that wit -”

Abruptly as you began, words fail you when you realize every last one of them is looking at you as if you had gone mad. Mayhap you have.

You know not how your voice retains any calm, but beneath defeat, its edge could cut crystal. “You will not heed me?”

Every instant that passes in silence intensifies your anger, until the red you see may very well be as vivid as Lahabrea's glowing crest. They dare? After all you have done for them?

Very well. If they wish to burn their most precious bridge, you shall light the torch.

“How many more lives would have been lost, Y’shtola, had there not been one of us willing to complete the designated tasks ere we reached Titan?  Or to Leviathan’s Maelstrom? Were you even in the room when we conceived of the _Whorleater_? For all the input you didn't have, I don’t recall.”

You never asked for anything - you never wanted anything - save this.

“Papalymo, did you find the accommodations at Castrum Centri to your liking? Perhaps well enough to stay there until Yda and Y’shtola could mount a rescue alone? Assuming the Garleans kept you alive that long.”

You tore yourself apart for them. Became enslaved as an eternal servant of the Gods for them.

“And Minfilia, even had that rescue been successful, you'd have long since been moved to another facility so the Black Wolf could indulge his every curiosity about your gifts. How long would you have lasted before breaking?”

You loved them and they loved you.

“And Thancred.” You nearly laugh. “Need I remind you why you are here today to drink and whore and condemn me, instead of being left as a pile of ash at the heart of the Praetorium?”

The others do not respond, be it from shock or shame - or both - but Thancred does. “Need I remind _you_ who tried to leave me as said pile of ash?” He crosses to you; uncomfortably, threateningly close, his face not a fulm from yours, and makes no effort to conceal his fury. “He is a monster! If she is his… _spawn_ -"

"Thancred, no." Minfilia pleads, unheard.

 _"-_ then she is one as well! And you are no exception if you claim to love him.”

Your limbs shake with the force of your ire, near ready to burst.

Perhaps this is how the Emissary felt when he first approached Minfilia, condemned before being granted the opportunity for sufficient explanation.

How mad would they proclaim their Champion if you revealed darkness to be integral to existence? That Darkness and Light are as one? They barely heeded your first attempt at explanation, any further and they’d fully declare you unfit.

By all the Gods, _it hurts_. Mayhap the Scions suffer as you do but, if so, you are blind to it.

Neither you nor they have any intention of yielding. You shake your head in futile attempt to clear it; regrets can come later. “We are done here. I pray you return my daughter before our hands are forced.”

Leaving them with the ominous threat of the combined rage of Lahabrea and the only mortal strong enough to best him, you turn on your heels and stride out, the doors to the solar and the Rising Stones itself slamming shut behind you with a finality that clears your mind of all but one thought.

You must find Matea.


	3. Spectres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doused in regret, the Warrior of Light begins her search.

‘Tis too simple a solution, yet you can think of no better place to begin.

Barely noticeable during a normal day’s bustle, in the silence the door’s hinges scream like a vodoriga’s claws against slate. All that greets your entry into the familiar, shared abode is the sweet scent of Matea's wash oils and long, lurking shadows born of the day’s fading light that seem almost drawn to the house’s new arrival and sole occupant.

The emptiness comes as no surprise, but the sting of despair clutches your breast all the same. 

Breaking free of the abyss’s hold almost as soon as it grasps you, you bar the door; if the Scions intend to hunt you down in response to your threats, your home is rightfully the first place they’ll check.

Hands running over smooth, barely-worn Rosewood furnishings adorned with carvings of ornate flowers and small beastkin, you roam the house, footsteps echoing over newly finished wood flooring with sheen visible enough to reflect the sun’s fleeting light; the absence of Matea’s personal effects - her favorite dresses and nightclothes, her pillow and comfort blanket, her doll - reveals that her caretaker, undoubtedly F’lhaminn, had taken Matea, in all her innocent trust, home before fleeing.

F’lhaminn planned for a prolonged journey; ‘tis a small relief that Matea retains familiar comforts.

At the edge of Matea’s bare bed, vivid spectres of laughter and eyes bright with curiosity are overwhelmed by images of a tiny child’s happiness turned to pained, desperate sobs. Your breath hitches and fists clench, ragged breaths turning your vision red with rage.

Even when you close your eyes, desolation refuses to grant any peace.

Aching, as if every muscle in your body has atrophied beyond repair, you turn from Matea’s room knowing full well the darkness will continue to consume you if you remain.

The despair will not be so easily buried, stealthily slinking through the tiniest cracks of your determination upon return to the house’s entryway, but the desire to find your daughter gifts brief respite for rationality.

The Scions take pride in their close ties with the Grand Companies of Eorzea, so if you desire freedom to pursue Matea without their meddling, there are very few places you might begin.  You cannot rely on fame nor favors -  the Songstress of Ul’Dah may be even more well known and loved than you.

As the shadows complete their fall through the empty house, your eyes roam in final, longing regret before pulling on a the warmest cloak you own that shrouds your face.  Unbarring the door, you summon the incantation to teleport to one of the few places remaining where the Scions have limited influence.  The familiar tug of aether swallows you whole and a moment later, the bracing air of Coerthas bites into every ilm of exposed flesh, a chill that makes breaths shallow and throats hoarse.

The path from Mor Dhona to the Shroud can be either short and dangerous or long and safe. Given the care with which F'lhaminn gathered Matea's belongings, you doubt she would have taken the short path and, with a child at her side, their mobility is limited.

Knowing better than to call upon your fine, but recognizable, steed, you instead pass a pile of coins to Dragonhead’s chocobo porter to ensure your anonymity. A second pile of coin dulls the attendant’s memory of your presence and reveals that no children have recently passed through.  If true, there’s yet chance you might intercept them.

You ride west, then south, steering wide of Whitebrim’s sentries, but not far enough to rouse suspicion; to them, you are a faceless traveler on the path to Revenant’s Toll by way of Monument Tower - and a lonely traveler, by the looks of things, with no trace of other riders’ recent passage.

As the evening deepens, snow falling harder over the Highlands until the path is obscured by the incoming storm, harsh realities become clear; you’ve no chance of finding Matea alone.

The chill claws at you, calming seething anger but birthing the ache of regret. Wrong though your now-former companions may have been for using your daughter as leverage to force you into impossible promises, they have ever been reliable and supportive; they did not deserve such cruelty.

Regardless, what's done is done; the words cannot be unsaid.

Upon coming to Daniffen Pass, you dismount the rental chocobo, maintaining your grip on its reins in case you have further need of it. You wait, but with each minute that passes it becomes clearer that 'tis impossible for F'lhaminn and Matea to cross Coerthas in the storm, snuffing out the last remnants of fragile hope.

Alone in a frigid pass, the foolhardiness of your mission all but crushes you.  Even knowing what must be done, you are hesitant to act. But with each second that ticks and the wind’s screech intensifies, the pool of dread settles more firmly in your breast and you understand that, like so much in life, you’ve no alternative.

Lahabrea's aid is necessary.

Bound by resignated acceptance, you close your eyes, feeling for the tiny, unbreakable  connection at the back of your mind. A simple tug is all that is necessary, but before you can complete the summoning, you’re drawn back into the Pass, well-honed sense for danger alerting you to a foreign presence. Almost by instinct, you turn, weapon at ready.

The intruder makes no attempt at concealing his presence.  “Emissary.” Your tone betrays more caution than intended, a chill clutching at your chest not entirely born of Coerthas’ cold.

“Warrior of Light - or perhaps not.” He inclines his head, reminding you of unspoken mutual understanding that you are an allies - of a sort. Cautiously, you sheathe your weapon; Lahabrea’s summoning must needs come later.

Elidibus reveals his hand early: his knowledge of your absent blessing; how unlike a self-proclaimed diplomat to open a dialogue with such prodding.  “What are you doing here?”

“I believe you understand my purpose - ”

“That does not explain your presence.” Surely Elidibus does not expect you to humor him, not when you are so clearly focused on a mission.

“- and I was under the impression you understood yours.” His is a curious, unavoidable, game and you find yourself unaccustomed to his vagueness after acclimating to Lahabrea’s brutal honesty.  Uncertain whether he refers to your argument with the Scions - how would he know of that so quickly? - or some other perceived neglectfulness, all you can do is set your mouth in a hard line and pull your cloak tighter against the elements while awaiting elaboration.

“The sands shift. The fault of your mistress’s absence rests upon you. Ever farther She falls and you play at -”

Tightly coiled emotions burst from your control as mounting frustrations boil over. “I’m sure Hydaelyn is touched by your concern.” Vividly aware of all that rests on you, you’ve not the time to entertain such lectures; that anyone would remind you, let alone -

\- is he _smirking_?

“Shorn of Her Blessing, you rely solely upon the Gift - and Lahabrea.” No matter how hard you work to school your expression to neutrality, impatience continues to build, only amplified by the revelation that _he knows._ “I once pondered his attraction; famed for stoicism and composure, you seemed unlikely to hold his interests for long, yet now I recognize how few differences exist between you.”

It seems that your secrets are not as well-kept as you once believed, but whether Elidibus implies flattery or insult is unclear. “You did not come to speak of my relationship.”

Again, the polite nod of acquiescence; akin to some manner of researcher, Elidibus prods you, testing the waters and see where stability rests, all whilst remaining irritatingly unreadable. “On the contrary **.** We are at the cusp of calamitous change.  The others are blinded; you’ll not find them amenable to our vision. Lahabrea most of all. Your submission to his will emboldens him and he acts beyond rationality.”

Perhaps the other Ascians feel about Elidibus and his meddling as the Scions now feel about you; he is a danger, no matter if you share the cause he pursues.  “How then, do you propose to counter Lahabrea’s ‘calamitous change?’  You’re mistaken if you believe I’ll sever our bond.”

His response is uncharacteristically hesitant, revealing no clues to his thoughts in expression or posture. Elidibus is everything Lahabrea is not: careful, composed, and unwilling to display his moods readily.

What would he do, if he felt his carefully cultivated balance slipping? To what lengths would he go to return you to the necessary path? The wind’s bite all but shreds your little remaining exposed skin until it burns raw in the prolonged silence of mutual consideration.

“Do what you must to douse yourself in the Light. Only then can you meet Lahabrea in Ishgard and stay Calamity.”

A tempting morsel of information, deliberately shared in attempt to focus your attentions where Elidibus needs them to be. But Ishgard, closed to outsiders as it is, is the last place on your mind. Matea comes first.

“At times balance is best served by stepping outside of binds of neutrality.” With final advice given, he bows as his form melts away into shadow, leaving the gentle lap of the pool’s water and wind’s rising howl as your only companions.

Would that you could.

Midgardsormr’s judgement is as silent as it is unknowable, a weight as heavy as the Agrius itself.


	4. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light summons Lahabrea; Elidibus acts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor suggestive content.

A deep, invasive shudder grips your chest; brought upon by a chill borne far deeper than you realized, a brief weakness pervades your muscles.  Numb fingers slip from the rental chocobo’s reins; free from your grasp, the mount adheres to its training and darts away, leaving you alone in the storm’s relentless winds.

Powder floats through the surrounding air as your weight hits the snow, blocking what remains of your vision. Naught but whites and greys fill the world, uninterrupted save by the occasional blot of evergreen; a bleak visage, your sole companion as the cold sets deeply into your bones and stubbornness fades to despondency.

You’ve no choice; void take Elidibus _and_ his warnings, again you withdraw into the back of your mind, distant from frost-coated armor and cool flesh, into the welcoming warmth of aether and vivid darkness.

The last time you called for Lahabrea with such intensity, Matea had awakened to her Gift.

Black aether bleeds like a blanket of fog, as impenetrable as the blizzard, searching and assessing before finally coalescing; Lahabrea answers quickly, betraying the care and concern he’d otherwise dare not express. Through touch and sight he observes, but despair’s depths are clear enough for even the blind to see. He makes no motion for aid, neither holding nor comforting; you’re neither elderly nor infirm. Lahabrea offers only a hand so that you might steady yourself.

Accepting without hesitation, shadow again bleeds; the storm melts and flesh dissipates, thoughts fading as you are swallowed by the darkness that is Lahabrea.  Unaccustomed to lurching through the aether without a beacon, instinctively you clutch, like a babe at its mother’s breast, knowing there’s naught to do but trust in Lahabrea’s guidance.

Ne’er has your trust been misplaced; indeed, when the shadow gives way and your flesh remakes itself at Lahabrea’s whim, you find yourself again swathed in blackness as senses readjust to their surroundings.  Hearing returns first; the storm rages against thin, seemingly worn walls, but the building holds the weather at bay, the warmth of your flesh already melting what remains of frost on your armor.

Lahabrea never ceases his surprises, yet if anyone would know of abandoned buildings in Coerthas, ‘twould be he and his ilk.

Amongst wind’s wails, Lahabrea observes, the overbearing touch of his aether roaming where sight cannot. You know not what he sees and he is unlikely to share his thoughts.

Irritable flames born of Lahabrea’s magicks dance, lacking constancy; what little light the spells provide barely hint at the outline of unused tables and chairs, flickery glow enveloping the unfamiliar building - a cabin it seems, with no evidence of recent habitation.

As if his curiosity is finally sated, Lahabrea turns with a frustrated growl, arm outstretched. With more force than necessary, deadwood in a previously unseen fireplace is engulfed by an inferno that all but bursts the targets, small burning chips of wood flaking through the air before falling into soot.

Long-desired heat lures you as a siren in an endless sea, warming chilled bones and drying your hair.  As you draw closer, hands over the open fire, the flames flare unnaturally and brief glance at Lahabrea reveals the cause: irritation. His lips tight and his fists clenched, the fire’s intensity grows, empathic to the intensity of his emotion, until its crackles are heard above the blizzard. 

This bodes ill.

“Fool.” He snaps, but as Lahabrea directs you to a cushioned bench near the fireplace with gentle pressure at your back, he’s far more tender than temper. “You forget the frailty of your mortal flesh.”

In almost unthinkable gentleness, he sits at your side and examines red, windburned cheeks. As if to support of his claim, he lightly drags gloved fingertips down raw skin - the motion makes you wince, but his warmth is more than welcome - then lays his palm flat against it, soothing presence of his aether a comfort that restores ailing vitality.

Despite the dire situation - or perhaps because of it -  brief amusement flutters through your breast; Lahabrea has never cared for the ”frailty of mortal flesh” before. His strange displays of concern are less confusing and more endearing as the years pass.

“I know my limits.” The rasp from your throat is barely recognizable; you surely betray some surprise, for Lahabrea’s lips tilt up in a taunting amusement that warms your cheeks. As quickly as it bloomed, the glow fades, the purpose of your presence as heavy as the layered snow on the cabin’s roof.  With what little willpower remains, you break hesitation’s grasp,  removing his hands, yet longing for the return of his touch as soon as your gaze slips down to the fire. “Matea’s gone.”

The jarring admission stills him surely as a vise; outwardly patient, Lahabrea waits at your pleasure, though with each passing moment, the tension grows thicker and words become more elusive, further admission dying on your lips.

You know not how to explain your failure; with a mother's ferocity you fought for Matea’s childhood innocence and defended the Scions as caretakers. You learned the depths of your folly far too late.

“Tell me.” He commands without words; the anger on his mask deceives, Lahabrea’s worry reveals itself as he bores into mind and soul and lifts your gaze to again meet his. His confidence a panacea for your vulnerability, you hesitantly concede to his will, sharing with him all you know.  Harsh, painful breaths reform in your breast as you relive every betrayal alongside Lahabrea’s vision, memories of accusatory glares, mistrust, and betrayal reopen wounds barely closed.

When he finally withdraws, shame prevents you from meeting his gaze. Regardless, you feel his smile blossom.

Lahabrea has never been one for subdued celebration.

Excitement stirs Lahabrea's hands once more. What an unfamiliar observer might mistake for comforting strokes down your cheek, you know for their true intent: possessiveness. No longer beholden to the Scions, through a wedge of your own making, you are _his_ alone.

The slightest smirk touches his lips, heralding reminders to come about his previous warnings of what would happen if your closest “friends” knew everything. “Don’t be so proud of yourself.” You scold, knowing the preening will come regardless.

“Their betrayal was an inevitability.”

“The Scions didn’t betray me.” Your stomach turns, knowing full well where the blame lies.

“They would take that which you hold most dear.” He pulls you close, windburned cheek resting on Lahabrea's soft robe, the steady the rise and fall of his chest under your palm. Acutely aware of every point of contact between you - with practiced precision, claws roam your neck and collarbone, tracing with ribbed, sharp metal seemingly far too warm to have been exposed to Coerthas’ frost, down your forearms - your churning stomach flips and warms; chills not born of the storm’s wrath flit across any bare flesh in shuddering tingles. “And they would take this.” His hands slide down from your waist and grip your thighs, pulling your hips to him suggestively, sharing his fire at the contact -  “They _dare_ judge that which they cannot understand.” As suddenly as he began his advances, he halts, unyielding in his snarl:  “Is _that_ not betrayal?”

Taken aback by his willfulness, breath hitches in your lungs. Lahabrea speaks rightly; you attempted explanation, but the Scions rejected your truths as easily as they might any outsider antagonistic to their cause.

Through emotional fog, doubt niggles; you ignored Elidibus’ earlier warnings - truths you know well - all the same.

Mayhap such folly is inherent in mortality.

You’ll not make the same mistake. There _must_ be a way; there can be no fault in finding Matea, no matter Elidibus’ warning and the depths of the chasms you must needs cross.

“I need your help.” You plead from, vulnerable within his grasp, light pants fading as the pulsing remnants of his touch recede, cooling to warm embers.

“My help, so that you might take our child and return with her to the mortals who will once again betray you?”

Unwilling to bend, Lahabrea reveals his price - ‘tis a fair cost and one you’ve denied him so far.

Even still you hesitate. This is not a world for one so young to take part in and Lahabrea’s will ever be a celebration of darkness alone.

Yet, Matea, too, is of Darkness.

And of _balance_.

“There is nowhere safer than with _us_.” You at last concede, gently emphasizing cooperation; you'll not allow Lahabrea’s to be the sole hand influencing Matea’s development.

“She will learn of _our_ ways.” He mimics your emphasis, demanding you finally accept his equal part with her; until now, you have stubbornly rejected him, but as you seek his aid, so too does he ask something in return.

As is ever the Ascian way.

This day was an inevitability; fate deemed keeping her to yourself an impossibility from the moment of her birth - perhaps 'twould it have been wrong to even attempt it. And every moment that passes is another in which she is alone and afraid, in some unfamiliar place, betrayed by those she once trusted . . .

These distractions have gone on too long; Matea has endured more than enough already.

You nod, remaining hesitation withering away as you accept a future with Lahabrea.

Silence envelops the room; Lahabrea revels in your acquiescence, clinging at you with familiar possessive fervor. In a momentary lapse, an ephemeral calm uninterrupted by the challenge of light and darkness, Lahabrea falls to nigh unheard of stillness, taking an almost mortal pleasure as he indulges in your presence.  But as with all illusions of prolonged peace, the serenity is painfully disrupted by a disruptive tear within Hydaelyn’s aether. Rugged and rough, as if ripped rather than sheared, shadow coalesces in the cabin’s far corner, revealing one of Lahabrea’s servants, his impersonal, full-faced black mask tilted toward you in a blatant stare. Whether shocked or disapproving of your presence, you know not.

“Tell Chalice what you know.” Lahabrea murmurs against your lips, light breaths shared with yours for only an instant before offering space so that you might do as he bids.

Chalice dares not challenge his Master’s will, but as you repeat your explanation of the morning’s events, he glances back and forth between you to Lahabrea. Pregnant silence hangs thickly  in the air, like an early morning’s mist through Limsa’s valleys. Expression unknowable, Chalice’s posture reveals his tenseness in a manner not unlike Lahabrea’s unique emotional tells. As if daring his servant’s defiance, Lahabrea flaunts his grasp, running his hands over your shoulders and down your hips.

“Find them.” He issues a final command, expecting unquestioned obedience.

“It shall be done.” Seemingly without hesitation Chalice nods - as he must, no matter his will - but his caution reveals itself with a final sideways glance.  There’s no time to question if Chalice’s apprehension will interfere before shadows swallow him, leaving you alone with Lahabrea once more.

Even as doubt’s gnaw swells darkness in your breast, there is naught to do but wait.

\--

Elidibus meddles again.

Would that it not be so obvious; nay, his summons display a fool apathy that continues to earn him the ire of his fellows.

Yet still Elidibus dares.

Tangential rambles are his offering and Nabriales suffers none of it. Balance, balance, always balance. Elidibus knows little else save insufferable repetition, as constant as the light he deems so precious.

“Shrouded is Her Blessing.” Elidibus reveals, the first delightful morsel that fully draws Nabriales’ attentions.  “With Her Chosen’s leave of absence. . .”

Nabriales needs no further explanation of Elidibus’ implications, smile teasing regardless of his will.  “Tupsimati remains in the hands of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”

“Indeed.” Vanished is Elidibus’ constancy; absent of the rigidity he casually bears, Elidibus turns, slithering as a serpent.  “But ‘ware; the Bringer of Light bears a child.”

He pauses and offers a final sideways glance.

“I’ll not be accountable for Lahabrea’s actions if she is harmed.”

Hmph.

Lahabrea worries Nabriales little, empty threats of the source’s Crystal Bearer even less, yet Elidibus’ phrasing -

Biting laughter echoes through infinite rift.

And thus is Lahabrea’s fall from grace, a dalliance with Hydaelyn’s chosen.

There is no better time for Nabriales to claim his rightful place at His side.


	5. Trepidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News arrives; Lahabrea learns what it means to be a father.

Snow-born persistent stillness muffles your world, slowing time in Lahabrea’s small, abandoned cabin until it has as much meaning to you as it does an ageless Ascian; the longest moments, with only hushed breaths and the infrequent crackle of flames as your companions, bring to mind how Lahabrea must wait between worlds in the depths of the the aetherial rift, where patience rises out of the necessity of eternity.

Trust in his promise to find Matea is all that saves you from collapse into anxious madness.

Not all of your time is spent alone. Lahabrea sometimes allows you to rest at his side, breathing of him, the dread his darkness once instilled naught but a long-forgotten memory; his aetheric touch trails gently, almost tenderly, as he revels in your reliance. Other times you might stir, rising from the chill to fuel flickering embers, only to find him gone - perhaps joining the search, perhaps tending to other business - but without fail Lahabrea returns.

Reminiscent tedium is interrupted by an unfamiliar presence; their shadowy rifts might be identical to those untrained, but you’d never mistake Lahabrea and Elidibus, let alone any other Ascian. The foreign essence coalesces without hesitation near Lahabrea, revealing one of his servants. He wastes no time on pleasantries, brusque as his master, and for that you’re grateful, your heart’s beat all but bursting from your chest in anticipation. “A child matching your description was seen traveling alongside a Miqo'te in the Quicksand in Ul’dah, their faces shrouded by heavy traveling raiments, as if in hiding.”

Little surprise that the famed ‘ _Songstress of Ul’dah’_ might return there; had you been able to investigate freely without concern of your movements being reported, it would have been an ideal first step. The revelation changes nothing; F'lhaminn will flee the moment she is informed of your arrival to the city. “You did not think to return with Matea?”

Lahabrea smirks, though you know not why; his casual treatment of the dire situation only prickles at you further. Unable to still an irritated sideways glance, you focus your attention on the Lesser - his voice revealing his identity as Chalice - who exhibits no readable change in his mannerisms. He offers the basest acknowledgement, heeding you only out of necessity. “We were given no such orders.”

 _The nerve!_ Your intentions were clear. A squeeze at your shoulder, equally intended to calm and subtly warn against responding to the provocation, has little of its intended effect; _still_ Lahabrea continues to make light of Matea’s disappearance. “Master, there’s more. . .” His black mask tilts questioningly toward you, doubtless uncertain of the depths of knowledge Lahabrea shares.

“Speak.”

“Nabriales moves to challenge the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.” Lahabrea's perpetual smirk falls into a flat line. “There was a confrontation in Thanalan - a Scion was wounded.”

Your stomach drops; Lahabrea did not react with near as much irritation to news of Matea’s disappearance.  This _Nabriales -_ an unfamiliar name, to be certain - is known to him and you offer a hard glance, silently pleading for answers. Your friends’ - _former friends? What might they be classified as now?_ \- safety is in his hands.

“A servant of the Twelfth.” Lahabrea’s dismissive brevity leaves much to be desired; it must be another Ascian, if he is so unwilling to elaborate.

There’s more, you only need push. “What is his business with the Scions?”

“He has none; it is not his place to meddle.”

He surely knows you’ll not tolerate his evasiveness, just as he wouldn’t from you.  “He attacked them.”

“Did he?  Or did your _friends_ antagonize him?” Barely concealing his growing irritation, Laharea irrationally lashes out at imagined slights.  Whatever this Nabriales has done troubles him more than he admits aloud. “If he dares overstep his bounds, he is unlike to stop at Thanalan.”

 _That_ is clear enough.

Even if the Scions were willing to cut ties with you at your last interaction, even if they loathe you for perceived betrayal, they were among the first to accept you when you began your adventuring career. If Lahabrea speaks true, they may _need_ you - as they always have. You might well be at fault for the danger they’re in.

-And yet, Matea awaits in an unfamiliar prison; her tearful visage, bound by fear and despair, all but shatters your heart.

Your child… or the Scions. ‘Tis hardly a choice at all. And yet-

Lahabrea. You came to him for this. There needn't even be a choice with two of you. You promised to allow him an equal part in her life; a father can retrieve his child as well as a mother.

“I have to go to them.”

Lahabrea turns fully toward you, using his millennia of experience to carefully conceal his thoughts. “You’ve not the strength to challenge Nabriales.”

He means no insult; Lahabrea knows your strength - for who is more familiar with a blade than the one who tempered it? But stripped of your blessing. . .

You shake your head. You’ve fared well without Hydaelyn; Her absence does not guarantee failure. “I have to try.” Though Lahabrea withholds further protest, the condemnation he bears promises an incoming tirade. Finding his hand in the dark, you grasp it in hopes of conveying the importance of your next request; rarely does he deny you with such earnest pleading.

“Please, go to her. See to our daughter’s safety.”

Silence bespeaks uncharacteristic hesitation, but he dares not refuse after demanding an equal part of her life; that Lahabrea returns your grasp is his only acknowledgement of agreement. “There are ruins outside Ul’dah, remnants of the Sil’dih. We will await you there.  If you’ve not returned by the moon’s rise, I _will_ come to you.” His emphasis can only be a threat - a dour reminder of the danger you are soon to face.

You simply nod.

\--

Hers is a trail of ripples and rends - anomalies not born entirely of the Gift.

Chalice spoke true, Matea’s presence a beacon in the mortal hive.

Countless voices and the whirl of meaningless bustle greet Lahabrea in open halls; the ignorant gather in this place, no souls adhering to the ancient truths that grant them awareness of his presence.

The door ajar, a masculine voice echoes from the room into the hallway; if the woman so welcomes guests, who is Lahabrea to deny her?

At his first step into the entryway, Matea meets his eyes; the large doll falls limp from her fingers.  Her screech is a sound none could survive unscathed. “Daddy!”

Only after Matea’s impassioned footfall silences the room’s occupants does Lahabrea deign reveal himself; the child’s grasp shares her mother’s ferocity as she clutches at his robe, burying her face and stifling relieved sobs.

“I’ll see to it from here.” Matea’s caretaker dismisses the unfamiliar mortal, fearful undertone betraying the lie of her calm demeanor; Lahabrea needs only the briefest glance at the man to deem him irrelevant.

“But -”

“That will be all.” The Miqo'te emphasizes and at last the man relents, wisely accepting his dismissal.

“Collect your belongings, we’re leaving.”

“Are we going to mommy?” Matea clings yet harder at his nod, twining tiny fingers of one hand between his.

“Matea, no, it isn’t safe with him.” Lahabrea bears no hostility, yet all pretense of calm leaves the woman’s manner, as if his very presence instills basal terror.

As is ever the fate of those blinded by tainted light.

Against his will, a smile plays at his lips, unlike to fall any time soon.

“Wanna see mommy.” Matea whines to the Miqo'te even as she scrambles to gather her few personal effects in unquestioning obedience - would that her mother heed him so readily.

“We’ll go see your mommy soon. Come back here.” Desperate pleas fall upon deaf ears; the abductor’s panic is naught in the face of a child’s desire and love for her mother.

“Nu uh!”

“Are you certain that’s everything?” Her nod as confirmation, Lahabrea takes hold of Matea’s hand, claiming her undisturbed essence. “Very well, let us away.”

Even as he offers his parting bow, Lahabrea rends Hydaelyn, satisfying waves of darkness spilling into Her sanctuary.  Matea heeds him readily, joining with Lahabrea as they transcend the plane, reforming so deeply into the depths of the untouched ruins where not even the fallen dare tread, their ghastly wails sundering Her barriers even long after their deaths.

“Wow!” Unrestrained giggles disrupt utter silence. “Can I do that?”

“All will be revealed when you’re older.” Now is certainly not the time for childish curiosities, not when her mother challenges Nabriales.

The answer momentarily satisfies the child and she falls back into pleased hums tracing the air with her fingers; she must sense the growing pit of imbalance in this place, where no normal mortal leaves unscathed.

All with all things mortal, the unknown only serves to enhance Matea’s undesirable curiosities.  “Where are we?”

“The remnants of a fallen civilization. Your mother will meet us here.” His disinterest clear, Lahabrea’s servants would dare not pursue further elaboration.

The warning serves well enough, for a time, and Matea falls back into her exploratory hums. But, as mortals and children are wont to do, when knowledge bores her, she pursues yet more.  “Did you fight with mommy?”

All vestiges of rumination fall away in an instant. “Who told you this?”

“Had a dream.” The Gift must grant her visions of the past. So rarely is Matea the focus of the entirety of his attentions that excitement turns to uncertainty and she looks down to her feet, pressing her lips together in unnecessary worry. “Minflea said you were bad.” Her courage wanes. “Do...d’you hate mommy?”

“Pay no heed to such ignorant rambling.” Her mother might yet place stock in the mortal word, but he’ll not permit Matea such folly.

“You’re not bad.”  With re-emerging confidence comes a smile, though the depths of her comprehension are in doubt.

With satisfaction on her lips, Matea draws near, eyes closing as she curls into the safety of the folds of his robes; Lahabrea remains the sole focus of a child’s unwavering attentions.

_Hmph._

She latches onto unintended acknowledgement, lids heavy as she looks up, drowsy from nuzzling. “Why was your face glowy?” Her tactless demonstration of “glowy” is both erratic and unrecognizable; Lahabrea closes his eyes.

Did none of her caretakers think to teach appropriate behavior?  No Lesser would act as such.

“You’ll bear one when you get older.”  Matea remains deaf to the rigidity of his tone and blind to the tightness in his body language. The fervent tug at his hands is more than enough; Lahabrea is no toy for a child’s amusement. “Sit down and be silent.”

A soft gasp accompanies Matea’s extraction and she wrings her hands together, lips quivering and eyes watering. When it becomes clear her childish nonsense lacks the desired effect, Matea falls back, a small whimper-concealed nod her only acknowledgment.  With her obedience the ruins return to blessed silence - marred only by infantile subdued wheezes.

How much longer must they wait?

His silent partner provides no answer.

“Daddy. . .” Matea’s sniffles continue, but her tiny body bears her mother’s stubbornness.  “How come I have a shadow?” With eyes encased in red, barely withholding tears, the child pleads for answers she is not yet ready to receive.  “A-are you really my daddy?”

The fool notions of the young; hers are easily dispelled fears.

“Don’t be foolish.” The tears fall, slowly at first, but as the dam cracks, so too must it burst, and despite his intention, tears spill all the more rapidly.  It seems a different approach is necessary.  “You are yet mortal.”

Though doubtless that Matea cannot understand the concept of mortality, that he has given her a reason should be well enough to satisfy her curiosity. 

“How come?”

 _This_ is an answer he is well ready to give - and she to receive; Lahabrea does naught to push down the tease of a smile.  “Your mother chooses to retain those bindings.”

“Why? Doesn’t she wanna be with us?”

“She does, all that is necessary is an adequate push.  Soon we'll be together.”

_Soon._

She’s late, the fool.

It’s long past time she’s returned to his side as promised, yet his calls are met only with silence.

In the depths of his essence her safety reveals itself, yet -

-his reach needs not stray far to meet her.

_No._

Nabriales would dare not take her _there_ , even aware of his disadvantage on the Source.

_Madness._


	6. Rend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light challenges Nabriales; Minfilia acts; Lahabrea plans.

The effects of his passage are clear long before you are able to sense him yourself; unsettled whispers greet your return to the 7th Heaven, sharp looks of unease followed by subtle glances at the Stones’ entrance prove all the evidence you need, though several seem shocked to see you - perhaps they were warned that you might return violently - but long, determined strides carry you past them without a second thought.

‘Tis surprising, then, that none are present to bar your passage into the solar. A dread silence settles upon the Stones; heavier than a fog but not nearly as thick, tension gnaws at your gut. Aether’s electric dance courses prickles down your back, revealing an essence of darkness well before you see its owner.

If you’d any grounds for hesitation, the hostile presence in the Scions’ sanctum would surely have dispelled them.

Expectedly, your entrance is cause for little fanfare; greeted by a smirk through bared teeth, the Ascian who can be none other than Nabriales stands at Minfilia’s side, dominating the chamber. Minfilia’s distress turns immediately to the shock of recognition at your arrival, clutching something hard to her breast; Moenbryda remains near the entrance, prepared for imminent battle, the weight of beastly battleaxe revealing well-hidden injuries.

In unison, their voices blend, questioning your return.

“You came back?”

“What are _you_ doing - ” 

Too late do you realize your mistake, momentary distraction providing the undesirable opening Nabriales sought.

Time slows to a crawl as the lance of darkness overtakes your vision; unlike your time in the cabin, there is no snow to dull your senses and drown the world to nothingness  - nay, every heaving breath is detailed, every choked gurgle released from Moenbryda’s chest as agonizing as if they were your own. Her muscles falter in an instant, axe falling from her limp grasp, tumbling, broken like a mammet whose core has been removed. All that pierces the bubble of stillness is Minfilia's hoarse shout.

Minfilia stares hatefully at you, eyes equally filled with blame and tears.

Would that she was mistaken, but panic’s haste bears unforeseen consequences. An atrophying curse of guilt sears your muscles and renders you inert, pleading for surrender; your dalliance has gone beyond endangerment and twice have you caused your friends harm. Would Nabriales have attacked had you but contained your emotions and remained at their side?

The unfamiliar Ascian offers only a disinterested shrug at your desperation; his apathy douses despair and fishes you from an ocean of self-pity, mutating despair into blinding rage. “So you are Lahabrea’s _Bringer of Light_.” Through unexpected flippancy Nabriales sneers. “How decidedly dull.”

Absent the traditionality you've found with Lahabrea, Nabriales proves nigh impossible to read and predict, such informality as alien as his very nature.

“Leave now or face the consequences.” Preconceptions breed hesitation.  You _know_ Ascians; the Thirteenth taught them caution. They’ll stay in shadow, avoiding direct confrontation with servants of light until the appropriate time for fear of upsetting balance. Yet here Nabriales stands - Minfilia in his bloodied grasp, offering naught save the shrug of his shoulders to the broken woman breathing her last at his feet.

“Mayhap you are the one who should leave; you don’t seem welcome - the darkness pulses deeply inside you now.” Minfilia squirms in disgust, but you’ll not heed his provocation so easily. 

‘Tis clear there’s no reasoning with this man; Lahabrea spoke true: he acts beyond his place.  Drawing your weapon, you clench your jaw in preparation for the inevitable. An amused snort is Nabriales offers, unimpressed at the antagonistic force before him. “Do not think to break me as you might Lahabrea. You’ll find taming me to be a _much_ greater challenge.”

His inappropriate taunts wash harmlessly over you, lacking the bite of Lahabrea’s reprimands.

Displeased by your silence and infuriating calm, claws - so familiar now, their curl a fond reminder of the shivers they oft send down your spine - wrench around Minfilia's arm; instinctively, her grip tightens over the broken item at her breast, protecting it as if ‘tis born of her own flesh.

You sense Hydaelyn’s rend before you see it; a portal between worlds - a rift that instinctively calls upon your internal aether. To Minfilia, as it once did you, the portal of darkness must surely feel as if Nabriales intends to unmake her, dragging her through the aetherial sea against her will, unable to reform without an aetheryte’s aid.  Instinctively she jerks wildly, but panic only serves to further ensnare her.

“Follow if you dare, Bringer of Light.”  A cloying invitation, equal parts mockery and threat, born of overconfidence. 

Mayhap he’s not so different from Lahabrea.

With no more discussion to be had, Nabriales and Minfilia’s forms are hastily replaced with the shadow through which they stepped, but unlike the teleportations you know, _this_ rift stays open, as if waiting. . .

For you.

The skill necessary to hold the rift from such a distance is unfathomable, yet still you cannot turn away;  Nabriales knows just how to coax you into his trap.

Minfilia needs you.

Worry tears your focus from the rift’s depths. Kneeling at Moenbryda's side, you search for any sign of life: the rise and fall indicating breath, the heart’s pound, the innate sense of soul itself. All prove absent, her remaining warmth all but dissipating under your touch.

You know not what you’ll ever say to Yda - if she bears enough forgiveness within to offer you the time of day.

There’s naught you can do for the fallen. Closing her lids, your fingers linger apologetically on lifeless hands.

A soft _clank_ interrupts further reminiscence; at your feet, having fallen from limp fingers, rests a large white crystal - nay, not a crystal, the auracite; Moenbryda was guarding it with her life.  Having only hesitantly attended the Scions’ discussions on Ascian elimination, ‘tis the first time you’ve been so near to it.  The auracite seems to drain the very aether that makes up your essence upon contact; it takes all of your control not to instinctively drop it in revulsion and you instead place it into your pack, relieved to be free of its detrimental effects. The others will surely want it returned once you’ve finished your business.

You’ve tarried long enough; Minfilia’s fate is in your hands and you’ve no more time for regrets.  The portal beckons and you answer its call, letting it swallow you in darkness alien and familiar both.

What greets your reformation feels like an intrusion.

You’ve seen their God before, as both crystals and broken visage.  This place - Lahabrea has shown it to you only in the most private moments. Placid and silent, the rift swirls as if a bubble within a dream, His statue its very reason for existence.  In this sacred realm of the shadowless, the advantage is Nabriales’.

“And so you’ve come, nipping at my heels like some feral beast pleading for sustenance. Forsaken by your former master, it seems you must now embrace the Darkness.”

Nabriales looses his fingers from their twine in Minfilia’s hair, dragging a claw down her cheek. She rewards him with a shudder of revulsion.

“I need neither light nor dark to end you.”

Goosebumps course your flesh at his laughter - nay, assuredly not so different from Lahabrea. But as you once faced Lahabrea shorn of Hydaelyn’s strength, so too must Nabriales fall by your hand. 

“I shall not toy with you, as does Lahabrea - no matter how you might beg.”

He prepares from battle, bearing unfamiliar rune and all too familiar battle stance, more amusement than hostility.

Is this all a game to him?

Disregarding the growl that forms at the back of your throat, Nabriales touches you - not with flesh, but essence. A greeting, you’ve learned, one of few familiar Ascian formalities; made up solely of aether, such touch is understandably their initial mode of communication.

‘Tis Nabriales’ invitation to death’s dance - and you are not wont to deny him.

_Know the might of a true servant of Zodiark._

_\--_

The binds are unyielding.

Wriggle as she might, the spell shows none of the weaknesses a rope might after prolonged struggle; neither sliding nor chafing, Minfilia’s prison permits little more than the sway of her stomach and hips, the oppressive statue to which she is chained doing little to stymie the numbing tingle of her arms, its persistent burning pulse near as painful as the ache in her breast.

But her aches are minimal in comparison to the struggle between Warrior of Light and Ascian, the sheer might of each spell sending tremors through the aetherial rift; enormous beams of all-encompassing dark pierce the air just shy of her body, quakes shake the land enough that she’s come to question the statue’s stability, complimented by flames so fierce that they render her temporarily blind, even in a lightless world. The pit in her stomach grows by the moment, yet Minfilia’s gaze remains unflinching, her attention rapt; she knows the stories as well as anyone, of her friend's victory over - the very echo of his name makes her ill - but never had she imagined the ferocity: they’re as much as threat as any primal, a single mistake fatal.

Minfilia presses her eyes closed at another bout of dazzlingly fast spells, but her ears betray her; the Warrior’s grunts, strangled and hoarse, reveal to all that she weakens well beyond reason, but. . .

Still she rises again. For Minfilia.  For the Scions. Ever was she their guiding star -

-and yet she embraced the worst of their enemies, bearing secrets at her breast and raising his child among the shadows. She could not have expected them to accept such a revelation.

Again and again the Warrior of Light throws herself in harm’s way for those who wronged her.

None other would be capable of this battle, and none other need be, for the Warrior of Light returned in spite of all that was said and done.

Such a bittersweet revelation - one that comes far too late.

Stilling for a new attack, the Ascian gathers Darkness unto himself, before - Minfilia must needs take a second look in order to comprehend the alien assault - seemingly releasing it, aether coalescing into strange balls. Nay, not strange - they seem almost wasteful, yet their purpose quickly becomes clear. As if to amplify his aether, the Ascian spreads and expands it through the Rift, mutating it into opposite types, as a Thaumaturge might Fire and Ice, that slowly return to him. The Warrior recognizes the method before Minfilia; responding even as she pieces together the attack’s purpose, the Warrior of Light attempts to dissipate the converging aether with her body. The balls explode in the lightest puff and with each comes a grunt from the growing burn on her flesh.

Yet try as she might, there’s far too much aether for any individual to siphon on their own and Minfilia can but watch as the Ascian laughs at the Warrior’s futile scrambling; his attack finally complete, darkness that somehow seems as red as blood bursts forth from him.

The accompanying wail makes Minfilia all but retch at the force of her struggle; the burn in her arms is _nothing_ , not as the Warrior wobbles on unsteady feet, armor and flesh torn, coughing blood.

She can’t lose another friend, not after Moen -

Mistakes of the past be damned, she’ll not let the Warrior fall. Unyielding though the bindings might be, Tupsimati remains yet in her grasp.

Ever she rises to continue her assault - and ever does the Ascian refuse to fall, but his spells are slower, more erratic, black aether bleeding from invisible wounds.

The end approaches.

Seeking to take advantage of the Warrior’s ailing strength and her inability to evade the attack, the Ascian again releases his aether, the strange balls of darkness floating towards the Warrior’s eventual demise.

_No._

If he amplifies his aether by spreading it throughout the rift, then -

Despite her panic, Tupsimati heeds Minfilia’s call; a Key, the Ascian called Louisoux’s staff - Minfilia will see that ‘tis the key to his demise.

The balls dissipate without the Warrior’s touch, aether flowing from them as surely as a Primal drains the land. Between weakened fingers the staff trembles, but her friend’s broken visage holds Minfilia’s strength resolute, until Ascian aether pulses nigh uncontrolled in her grasp.

Too late does the Ascian realize his mistake; the aether bursts from Tupsimati, and ‘tis all that Minfilia can do to focus its force; blinded by devastating light, Minfilia only knows the assault hits its mark by the Ascian’s roar of rage and the familiar sound of an erratic, firey blast.

. . .followed by a shrill scream, more gurgle than cry, wet and sick.

As the binds loosen and Minfilia falls to the ground, Tupsimati devoid of aether. The world reels as her focus wavers; mind rends from flesh and consciousness lapses, darkness melts throughout her essence in waves of burning tingles until she can no longer tell up from down - until there’s naught differentiating reality from fantasy.

Time’s passage is unclear, but when the world sets itself to rights Minfilia finds herself back in the solar; the Ascian lies broken before her - the Warrior of Light at her side.  Her breaths shallow, lifeblood spills from her veins; Minfilia dares not look beyond pained eyes to the Warrior’s inevitably broken body, but her friend’s silent plea, little more than the tilt of her eyes and head, gestures elsewhere.  Once, twice - and Minfilia can feign ignorance of her intentions no longer, cringing as she follows the Warrior’s pointed gaze. At her side lies her pack, contents loosed upon the floor; it takes naught more than a second to understand, Minfilia’s attentions focused as if attracted by its very nature:  Moenbryda’s much vaunted white auracite.

The Sword of Light.

The plan had always been for the Warrior of Light to recreate the blade of light, just as she had to banish the Ascian from within Thancred's consciousness. None of the others possessed the knowledge -

She had always been so quiet at those meetings, responding with little more than the basest nods; she was expected to be a weapon to banish the dark - and all that time she had endured oblivious companions eagerly anticipating her lover’s destruction.

Her spite might not be so misplaced.

A roar - somehow silent and deafening both - shatters Minfilia’s reverie. The servant of darkness’s broken flesh bursts apart, a swirling vortex swallowing the fragments and reconstructing them. Once-tattered robes return to pristine blackness, the Ascian’s taunting sneer echoing from within aether’s vortex, promising of return. Tomorrow, the next day, and the next.

The Warrior’s broken pants are evidence enough: this victory, no matter how small, has been far too costly. Tomorrow’s battle, and the next day’s, and the next - they must all be won _now_. It is what the Warrior of Light would do. She who had been willing to give all, even after Light’s servants turned their back on her.

Minfilia takes the auracite in hand. Holding it before the darkness as if it were a shield, the tool seems to gain a will of its own, eagerly seeking the pure black aether and drawing toward it, absorbing, _feeding_. Taunts quickly turn to impotent rage as the vortex quickly mutates into maelstrom of aether, inevitably drawn beyond its owner’s control; the Ascian struggles fiercely against his prison, the walls of the auracite creaking, bending against his onslaught as a weakened boat might waver in a raging storm.

Still her friend does not rise; the Warrior of Light’s strength falters instead of recovers, boundless determination unable to overcome the severity of her wounds. Collapsed in a heap, her skin listless and her eyes closed, ‘tis impossible to tell if she’s simply lapsed into unconsciousness or. . .

Minfilia swallows hard, daring not continue; the Warrior is the only one who knows how to create the blade, yet she has naught left to give after having fought so desperately for her life.

 _Not her own life,_ Minfilia corrects; _my life._ She willingly sacrificed everything to stand between the darkness and the light.

It _can’t_ end like this.

She has little power as antecedent, but Minfilia bears all she can - in the only way she knows how. She prays.

Pleading to a silent goddess who responds only when She deems it necessary - one who offers Her children Gifts while stealing away their dreams of normalcy. A loving, benevolent deity whose touch and voice Minfilia knows as well as her own.

Praying for answers. Praying for an end to despair.

As she has since Ultima’s fall, she receives only silence.

Nay, not silence. Minfilia _sees._

Branded upon her very soul, an answer. She is no Warrior of Light; Minfilia has naught the strength on her own, but with this -

She accepts without hesitation.

Ever has her life been in service of the star;

Ever will it remain.

Hydaelyn’s voice rings with untold clarity within hers, mind joined as one; the Blade of Light is as memory as if she wielded herself.

Tupsimati falls worthlessly from her grasp; she has no need of it.

The light bends to her will as if an appendage and the Ascian screams, the sole target of Her justice.

Brighter and brighter it burns, shining fury enveloping the auracite, pitiless to pleading darkness within, before finally shattering, the essence of the endless dissipating into nothing.

Quivering legs unable to support her any longer, Minfilia collapses, muscles refusing to heed their master.  She must needs rest, just for a short while. . .

As dark overtakes her vision, the last wisps of consciousness register the arrival of calm footfall and a muted prickle of dread.

\--

It’s as ritual as collective reverence.

“When’s mommy gonna wake up?”

No matter how she might try, her mother’s form ever eludes Matea’s grasp, tiny fingers grasping at cold hands, not yet tall enough to reach.

“In time.” An answer no different than that of the thrice past.

“And we can be together?”

“Until the star's end.” If necessary, he will see that she rises as its witness.  “Come, your mother needs her rest, let us return to your lessons.”

\--

Nothingness brings only tangible silence.

In this place, the impossible became reality.  Traces of the battle remain, sacrilege that rends not only the Rift, but existence.

Blind confinement; the abhorrent Blade’s sear -

Nabriales’ wails etched upon remnant aether, long after being eternally silenced.

Footfall breaks mounting tensions; Elidibus cares naught for keeping schedules when they are not his own.

From behind, Lahabrea feels Elidibus’ gaze come to rest upon His visage.

“Nabriales is unmade.”  Though reproducing the conditions at which Nabriales met his end is nigh an impossibility, Lahabrea needs know no such fears. His crystal is shared in part with another, and hers with him; even now she rests, all but unmade herself.

Elidibus shares nothing; when he finally speaks, he remains at Lahabrea’s back, denying long-held equality from he who knows him best.

“An unforeseen complication. But with his sacrifice, balance is restored.” The admission draws a snarl from Lahabrea’s throat as he turns to the guarded Elidibus.  He _dares_ act against their purpose to fulfill his, mocking with an amiable charade whilst endangering them all  in attempt to recreate light’s flood. “How fares your partner? Bound as you are, such changes must be. . .costly.”

Try as he might to stop it, his fist clenches; Elidibus meddles where he is unwanted. Nabriales was a fool, a rogue element that mayhap necessitated pruning, but Elidibus bears ivy’s invasive tendrils. Long has Lahabrea toiled without Elidibus’ interference, he’ll tolerate none of his games now.  “We’ve no more need of your _balance_.   _I_ will return north. Without you.”

There needs but be one more - and all is in place.


End file.
